> Saying: I love you Is not the words I want to hear from you It's not that I want you Not to say, but if you only knew How easy it would be to show me how you feel — More Than Words - Extreme

Nord's fingers danced discreetly beneath the tablecloth, her eyes skimming over her phone's screen. She felt the buzzing anxiety of an unanswered text thread; where was he? Baal was usually never quiet, flooding her inbox with ridiculous memes or absurd one-liners. But today, of all days, he was silent. Can a demon grow tired of a human?

The conversation at the expansive dining table in Morningstar Manor was about as uninspired as the outdated wallpaper. Mundane life events—births, weddings, new jobs—were dutifully announced but barely absorbed. No one here seemed to truly listen, each lost in the cavern of their own self-interest.

South, Nord's twelve-year-old sister, was engrossed in a lively conversation with her similarly-aged cousins. Unlike most girls their age, who might be discussing cartoons or toys, they were whispering and giggling about boys. Nord rolled her eyes; God, to be so young and trivial again.

A clinking of silverware against glass interrupted her thoughts. It was the universally recognized signal for an important announcement. As Nord looked up, she felt a twinge of disbelief. Her mother was standing at her seat, champagne flute in hand. The table hushed, and for a moment, even the lacklustre chandelier seemed to glisten a bit more brightly.

"My dear family, I hope you've all enjoyed your meal. And now, as we gather here to celebrate our Matriarch’s birthday, let's not forget what truly sets us apart. What makes us unique." Her mother's eyes gleamed. "Magic. It's not just a word for us Morningstars; it's our heritage. It's in our blood, in every spell we cast, in every potion we brew. Well, some of us, others were gifted the true miracle."

Nord listened intently, feeling a wave of unease. Her mother, usually so reserved about such matters, was making a spectacle of their family's magical legacy. Nord couldn't help but wonder why.

"And it is my deepest hope," her mother continued, "that each generation of Morningstars surpasses the last in wisdom, in power, and in kindness. We hold an immense responsibility to the world and to each other. We must never forget that."

A smattering of applause followed. Nord looked around the table, seeing a few nods, several blank faces, and—uncomfortably—more than one pair of eyes that seemed to scrutinize her a little too closely. It was almost as if they knew she'd come with an agenda of her own.

Nord's mother, her face glowing with a strange mix of maternal pride and ceremonial formality. "I can't find the right words to express how I feel and how to share it with each one of you," she began, her voice carrying across the room.

"It is with immense pride that I announce my youngest daughter, South, has entered womanhood just last week—without ever showing any trace of magic. And so, this is our Lord's proof that she is destined to be our next vessel when she turns eighteen. Please, let's offer our applause for our little miracle, my daughter, South Morningstar."

Amidst the polite clapping and suppressed murmurs, South hesitantly stood, her face a stoic mask that barely concealed the fear in her eyes. Nord felt her stomach churn. Underneath the table, South's small hand tremulously sought out Nord's. Their fingers entwined in a momentary refuge.

"Don't worry," Nord whispered, her eyes meeting South's, "I've got this." She flashed a brief, reassuring smile, squeezing her sister's fingers gently.

Then, Nord stood up, gripping her glass tightly. With a jingling chime that cut through the room's ambience, she declared, "Isn't it wonderful that we're all gathered here? Plotting and selling off one of our youngest, no less." She tinkled her glass once more for emphasis.

"How about a suggestion? A walk to the history of our bloodline, a little excursion to the very place where our ancestors were consumed by the abyss for the sake of Earth's safety. What do you all think? Visiting the grave of our miracles!"

Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Her mother's face went ashen. "Nord!" she hissed, her eyes stretched wide in mortification.

Nord met her mother's gaze, unflinching. "Don't you want to see the last place your youngest will stand? Because I do. I want to see where I'll lose my sister. I want to see where it all happens."

A suffocating silence enveloped the room. The Matriarch broke it. "I don't see why not," she said, her voice surprisingly approving. "I am pleased, actually, that our little Northern Star would show such concern for our traditions."

As everyone reluctantly agreed, Nord felt South's grip tighten under the table, a wordless thank-you, a silent vow. In that fleeting touch, a seed of rebellion was sown—small yet unyielding—as if a warlock dared challenge the fates themselves.

The banquet hall emptied slowly and everyone followed the Matriarch towards the initiation room. Deserted dishes and half-empty glasses remained on the table, forgotten remnants of a feast that celebrated something far darker than a coming-of-age.

Nord slipped her phone behind her back as she followed, carefully holding it so the front camera faced outward. Her thumb surreptitiously pressed the screen, capturing images as she walked. The room was dimly lit, its air thick with the musk of incense and aged books. Her eyes scanned every detail—a pentagram faintly traced in red on the floor, the ornate candlesticks holding black candles, and shelves filled with ancient tomes.

Her camera flickered from object to object, storing away fragments of the room where her sister might be irrevocably sacrificed. She was making mental notes, piecing together how she might break through whatever arcane safeguards existed here to reach what was ominously referred to as "the Hollow."

She realized something was amiss. Her eyes narrowed. Where was the vessel for the entity that had arrived three years prior? No ornate urn, no cryptic container, nothing that seemed like it could hold something as malevolent and powerful as what had been whispered about in family legends.

Then again, today was not the day for all questions to be answered. Today was for gathering pieces, storing them away like a squirrel hoarding nuts for a long, unforgiving winter.

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Nord's bicycle tires skidded to a stop on the damp asphalt, the bike leaning precariously against the weathered wall of an old building. This part of the city felt like a hidden pocket, just far enough away from the opulence of the Morningstar mansion to escape notice.

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She pushed the bicycle's kickstand down and approached the building's front door. Her finger stabbed the buzzer, waited, and then did it again. Silence. Her impatience mounting, she pressed the bell repeatedly, each ring more frantic than the last.

Frustrated, she whipped out her phone and dialled his number. It rang, rang, and then—the voicemail. "Damn it, Baal," she muttered.

Slogging around the side of the building, she found herself at the fire escape. With a glance up to the third-floor window, she started climbing, her breath coming out in fast, annoyed puffs. Reaching the third floor, she grasped the metal handle of the back door. Locked.

"Baal, open up! What the hell do you think you're doing?" she yelled, her voice tinged with desperation and fury. Nothing but a hollow echo responded.

Her eyes darted to the glass panel on the door. She gritted her teeth and thrust her elbow into it, expecting to hear the satisfying crash of shattering glass. Instead, the surface held firm and a jolt of pain shot up her arm.

"Damn it!" she hissed, stepping back, "What the fuck, Baal!"

Gathering herself, she focused intently on the glass. Emotions surged within her—confusion, frustration, seething anger. They swirled into a tumultuous storm, focusing through her eyes, channelling toward the stubborn barrier before her. Pure Atua Ma. The glass quivered, cracked, and then shattered, falling away like a brittle curtain.

Breathing heavily, Nord reached through the empty frame, her hand closing around the inner door handle. With a forceful yank, the door swung open. She stepped inside, her face hardening into a mask of determination.

"Alright, Baal, time for some damn answers," she muttered, ready to confront whatever—or whoever—lay within.

Nord's voice cracked as she screamed through the vacant apartment, a tempest of desperation and fury. "Baal! You soulless demon! Do you think you can just vanish? Oh no, you can't get away from me that easily! I'll chase you down, you hear me? Where the hell are you? You promised me, Baal!"

She burst through each room like a hurricane, tearing aside curtains, upending cushions, a one-woman wrecking crew fuelled by betrayal and an unyielding need for answers. Every empty space she encountered amplified her hysteria. Her shouts reverberated off the barren walls, unanswered and echoic, turning her angst into a discordant symphony of despair.

Finally, her eyes narrowed on the bathroom door, slightly ajar. "What the hell, Baal? Why aren't you answering me? Are you breaking up with me?" Nord's hand trembled as she pushed the door open. Her words choked in her throat, reduced to meaningless syllables by what she saw.

Baal was there, hunched over the bathtub. But this was a tableau not of abandonment but of something far more jarring—a scarlet horror scene, blood splattering the pristine porcelain. His hands were crimson, clutching a cloth as if trying to stanch a relentless flow.

Nord's initial rage crumbled into fragments of confusion and dread, her breathing shallow, her limbs weak. "Baal... what happened? What is this?"

Baal's eyes lifted to meet hers, and for the first time, she saw not the comfortable warmth she was used to but a chilling void. It was as if he stood at the edge of some unfathomable abyss and had just glanced back to find her standing there, too, equally on the brink.

Nord's legs propelled her to Baal's side with a haste she didn't recognize as her own. Her eyes darted over him, trying to find the origin of the blood. Then she saw it—the raw, painful patches where his horns used to protrude from his scalp. Her fingers hovered in the air, trembling with uncertainty. Call an ambulance? No, this was beyond the grasp of any mortal medicine.

"Baal, baby, talk to me, what happened?" Her voice was a fractured whisper, fragile in the face of the unspoken dread that hung heavy between them.

He moaned, eyes barely open, a grimace twisting his usually composed features. "It hurts," he managed, each syllable a visible struggle.

Panic mounting, Nord sprang into action. She darted to the linen closet and snatched a pile of clean towels, her thoughts a whirlwind of disjointed urgency. She returned, wrestling with the faucet to turn on a gentle stream of cool water. Baal's clothes were already a bloody mess; what did it matter now? She coaxed him into the tub, her hands trembling but determined.

Easing herself in beside him, Nord began the delicate task of rinsing the blood from his scalp. Her hands moved with tentative care, each swipe of the cloth revealing more of the gruesome reality. The skin where his horns once grew was marred by jagged scars, but there were no fresh wounds to explain the blood. Her heart sank; this wasn't just an injury. This was something far more elusive and chilling.

"Baal, I can't see any new wounds. What happened? Why are you bleeding?" Her voice tinged with desperation, she looked into his eyes, searching for any flicker of explanation.

Baal's gaze met hers, haunted and shadowed. "I can't...I can't explain it. But this... is a part of me you were never supposed to see, Nord. I'm so sorry..."

Kirara had followed them into the bathroom, her presence nearly forgotten until now. She sat, almost human in her posture, on the closed toilet lid, her feline eyes unreadable but intense. She looked from Baal to Nord as if contemplating the immense weight of the unsaid words that filled the room.

Nord felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach, a dreadful culmination of every unasked question, every half-truth, every careful omission that had ever passed between them. She clutched the bloodied towel in her hand, her knuckles white with tension. Did this happen before? How did she miss it? Was she so selfish that it blinded her?

"Then start explaining, Baby. Because I'm here, covered in your blood, in a bathtub, and I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared for you, and I'm scared that... If you've ever trusted me, if you've ever loved me, talk to me, please! Oh god, oh god, so much blood! Let me help you, please!"

Her words hung in the air, a challenge and a plea, punctuated only by the ceaseless drip of the faucet and the almost-human stare of a cat that was more, or perhaps less than, she seemed.

Baal's head slumped against her, his moans a disconcerting counterpoint to the steady rhythm of water cascading from the faucet. Nord persisted in rinsing away the thickening scarlet, her hands now steady but her heart anything but.

"What happened, Baal? Please, you have to tell me."

He sighed, the sound tinged with a pained resignation. "I had bad thoughts, Nord. Thoughts about how I'd lose you in six years. Six years is nothing. It's not a lifetime. I… shit."

As he spoke, the flow of blood seemed to thicken again, each drop more stubborn than the last. Her fingers stilled, her eyes widening. "Bad thoughts..." she muttered, the realization dawning like the first light of a grim morning. "Have you eaten anything?"

"No," he mumbled, his voice tinged with a vulnerability she rarely heard, “I’m not hungry, baby.”

"How about we order in? We can kick back and watch a movie. How does a monstrous triple cheeseburger sound? yummy, right?" Her words, though deliberate, were layered with genuine affection and an urgent need to change the direction of his thoughts.

He managed a weak smirk. "No tomatoes."

She chuckled, laughing a small but defiant rebellion against the room's heavy atmosphere. "Of course not. Adding tomatoes would be a culinary sacrilege! Blasphemy!"

As she laughed, the lines of blood seeping from his scars seemed to lighten, the flow thinning out as if in response to the emotional lift. "So, what movie shall it be? We could watch 'Karate Kid'!"

His eyes met hers, a glimmer of his usual warmth seeping through. "But you hate that movie."

She shrugged, a tender smile pulling at her lips. "You love it, and that makes it worth watching for me."

As the water swirled around them, diluting the haunting remnants of red, Nord began to hum softly. Tentatively, at first, then growing more confident, she started to sing the words. Her voice wavered, charmingly off-key, as she rocked Baal gently in her arms.

"Saying 'I love you,' is not the words I want to hear from you. It's not that I want you, not to say, but if you only knew..."

Baal looked up, his face a mix of amusement and wonder. "What are you doing?"

"Singing," she said, grinning as she continued to hum the tune, weaving the simple melody through the air.

Nord had never claimed to be a vocalist. In fact, she was reliably terrible, a trait which, under different circumstances, might have made for a comical anecdote. Demons, after all, were rumored to have voices that could charm even the most cynical of souls. But in that moment, her imperfect notes struck a chord deeper than any pitch-perfect harmony ever could.

And it made Baal happy.